round willow railing, peers into the lighted arena. The dancing center
fire shines bright into her handsome face, intensifying the night in her
dark eyes. It breaks into myriad points upon her beaded dress. Unmindful
of the surging throng jostling her at either side, she glares in upon
the hateful, scoffing men. Suddenly she turns her head. Tittering maids
whisper near her ear:

"There! There! See him now, sneering in the captive's face. 'Tis he who
sprang upon the young man and dragged him by his long hair to yonder
post. See! He is handsome! How gracefully he dances!"

The silent young woman looks toward the bound captive. She sees a
warrior, scarce older than the captive, flourishing a tomahawk in the
Dakota's face. A burning rage darts forth from her eyes and brands him
for a victim of revenge. Her heart mutters within her breast, "Come, I
wish to meet you, vile foe, who captured my lover and tortures him now
with a living death."

Here the singers hush their voices, and the dancers scatter to their
various resting-places along the willow ring. The victor gives a
reluctant last twirl of his tomahawk, then, like the others, he leaves
the center ground. With head and shoulders swaying from side to side, he
carries a high-pointing chin toward the willow railing. Sitting down
upon the ground with crossed legs, he fans himself with an outspread
turkey wing.

Now and then he stops his haughty blinking to peep out of the corners of
his eyes. He hears some one clearing her throat gently. It is
unmistakably for his ear. The wing-fan swings irregularly to and fro. At
length he turns a proud face over a bare shoulder and beholds a handsome